13 Halls
by tterekoi
Summary: 25 years ago, the resistance lost. Nothing has changed, nothing can change, and nothing will ever change, except for the worse. But after 100 years of watching kids die, the Capitol is getting bored. Now introducing: The 13 Halls Tournament!
1. Card Reading

13 halls tournament

25 years ago, the resistance lost. Thousands died in battle, and thousands more in punishment afterward. 506 kids have died the same way they did 75 years before. Nothing has changed, nothing can change, and nothing will ever change, except for the worse.

Now, after 99 years of watching children kill each other for their entertainment, Capitol citizens are getting bored, and the cards agree. Its time for the 4th Quarter Quell, and no one will expect this: A new game is being introduced, the districts' everlasting punishment for the Mockingjay Rebellion. This year marks the beginning of a new game, 13 Halls, and with new rules, there are new dangers, new strategies and new winners. Good luck, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor.

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We crowd into our little room, all watching, excited, at the small black box. It turns on. It glows blue, then shows the Capitol seal and plays the anthem we listen to every day at school. Then there's a moment of static, and we see the stage in the center of the reconstructed Capitol. Everything shines in bright pastel colors, blinding us, as the television is the only light we have this late at night.

My brother Damian turns up the volume. We don't want to miss this. We watch President Snow wheel himself onto the stage in his silver wheelchair. From this camera angle, he looks like he always has, but when the screen switches to a close up its obvious how old he's become, and how much he hates it. Thin pale skin is stretched over an angular skull, and his white haired wig is tilted slightly so we can see a large liver spot. The crowd claps as ever, and then a boy in all white brings out a single small box holding many small folders. The crowd grows silent, and in our house we all lean forward.

The President's thin, spidery hand goes to the box and fingers through the folders, walking up them until he reaches the one labeled 100. He pulls out the card, reads it over to himself, then hands it to a purple-ish pink man standing next to him.

"When did he get there?" I whisper to Damian. He shushes me.

Flickerman coughs twice, and begins to read the card. "After 100 years of... prosperity," he begins, pausing where the card must have read 'peace and', "the Hunger Games are surely growing tiresome. This year, and for many years to follow, we will celebrate in a new way in addition to the old. This year marks the beginning of the 13 Halls Tournament!"

What? I look to Damian, who has looked to Obsil, my other brother, who is staring at the screen. We follow his example. The crowds in the Capitol are just as confused, and it takes Flickerman a minute to quiet them.

"The card reads that the rules shall be a surprise. What excitement! This year will truly be one like no other!"

For the next hour, Flickerman and a variety of Capitol big-wigs chatter about the possibilities. Where will it take place? How will they introduce it? How will people bet? Who will be entered? Will there be any new stars? Who will mentor? And of course, may the odds be ever in your favor! Then the anthem plays, and the television turns off.

We stare at the screen, wondering silently, until there's a knock at the door.

"I'll get it!" I say, and jump up. Before I leave I see the smirks pass between Damian and Obsil, and roll my eyes at them.

There's another knock. "Oh be patient!" I shout before opening the door, and as expected, there's Mica. He has dark blond hair that barely falls over his hazel eyes. Mica is a few inches taller than me but is just as skinny, though I'm sure that will change after a few more years in the mines. He gives me a hug, and I hug him, and we walk back in with his arm around my shoulders.

"What do you think it means?" we all know what he's talking about.

"Just a new game for their fun is what it seems like," says Obsil.

I don't think so. "Maybe its because of the Mockingjay Rebellion."

"But the cards were all pre-written," is Damian's rebuttal.

"You really believe that? It seems to me that they just write the cards however it suits them best that day, and stick it in the folder.. I mean, maybe not the first 2 times, but the 3rd, and this, both seem really pointed." I say.

"Nik could be right," agrees Mica, always my reliable boy, "It wouldn't be hard. They never really gave the birds a show after the second rebellion." 'The birds' is what he calls capitol citizens, since they're so colorful and 'bird-brained.'

Obsil shrugs. "If that's what it is, then that's that. Nothin' we can do about it." And we all know he's right. One "game", one punishment, per rebellion, as if actually blowing up 13 and 12 wasn't enough. No doubt they would've annihilated other districts, too, if they weren't all so important. At the time our district, district 2, was a weapons manufacturer, but because we had given some of them to the rebels we're just stone miners again. Damian and Obsil both work in the mines, since they're 17 and 18. Women don't work in the mines, their job is to cut the stone brought from the mountain. Work starts at age 12.

I look at the little analog clock across the room. Its 7:45. Mica sees it too. "I should probably get back home," he says, and gives me a quick kiss before standing to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow!" he calls as he lets himself out. Curfew in all of the districts is 8:00. Mica lives only a few houses down from ours, but his mother starts mom starts worrying by 7:50. Being out after curfew means a warning. At each warning you get 5 lashes, and after 3 you are sent to mine coal in what was District 12. At the end of each Hunger Games your warnings were removed, and you begin again for the year. Warnings are pretty uncommon in our district, but it's said that in District 11 warnings were so commonplace they had to increase the lashes to 10, and lawbreaking still happens. They'll be the last to be accepted by the Capitol, if ever.

The TV is still glowing blue until Damian turns it off. "Best get to bed, girly. Long day of chopping rocks tomorrow." he says. I sigh and nod and follow him to the back of the house. The single bedroom has 2 beds, so I get one, Damian the other, and Obsil sleeps on the floor, since he's the oldest. "This way, if I ever get into the Hunger Games, a leafy forest floor will feel like luxury to me!" he declared when we made the arrangement. That night, though, he'd added "But once I'm 19, I want a bed."

I crawl into my bed and curl up under the thick blanket made by a women in town who owns mountain sheep. All 3 of us have one, and two more hang on the walls, the ones that were our parents'. They both died in a Capitol-caused avalanche while the Capitol was still wreaking havoc on the Districts. The "accidents" would happen every few years, just another show of power by the Capitol, and there's nothing we could do about it. I was 2 when it happened. I fall asleep to hazy images of my mother and father, that change to my brothers, both black haired and 5'11'', Damian with dark brown eyes and Obsil with ice blue eyes like mine. One year they'll make our district proud in the Hunger Games, or maybe this new game, 13 Halls.

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Grant had watched the reading of the card with very little interest, while his sister Conga had been practically glued to the little television. It was all she could talk about the last few hours of the day.

"Where do you think 13 Halls will be?" she'd ask. "It won't be in the woods like The Hunger Games are. That's too similar. And what did they mean 'Growing tiresome'? How is watching kids battle to the death boring? I mean, I guess after 100 years it might get repetitive. What do you think 13 Halls will be like?" and she would go on, and on, and on. Grant began to enjoy his schoolwork, since it gave him an excuse to ignore her. _Blah blah blah Mockingjay blah blah Dark Days blah blah blah Shining Capitol... _ He turned the page. Who writes these books, anyway? he wondered. It's obviously very pro-Capitol, but the Capitol people hate work. Hmm. He turned the page again.

"I think I'm going to volunteer!" came Conga's voice.

"What?" Grant spun around, staring wide eyed at his sister, who was looking so proud you might think she'd just won the games herself. "You don't even know what the games will be like! What if... what if–"

"What could happen?" Conga said, waving her hand, "I'm ready for a battle to the death now! There's not much out there that's worse. Quit worrying. You should be ready to volunteer soon, too, little wimp."

Grant glared at her and turned around, flipping a few more pages of his history book. _They invaded the Capitol in groups but were no match for our superior technology. Pods throughout the city took them out one by one, and if not pods then our brave force of Peacekeepers did their jobs. Everdeen and her followers stood no chance, and the leaders of the Rebels were executed in the City Plaza on x/x/xx. After the execution, any remaining force of rebels crumbled on themselves and returned to their own districts, not unpunished. The Hunger Games continued as they always did and will forever more. In the 4__th__ Quarter Quell the Districts will undoubtably get their final punishment._

Grant leaned on his hand, I wonder if they'll write new history books this year. Maybe then we'll know who writes them...

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A/N: Hehehe. This is my first fanfic, and I've had this in mind for a few weeks now. Secretly, I already have the ending planned. This may be my most planned story yet, actually. Since this is my first fanfic, I didn't really know about that whole syot thing, so sorry, these are all my characters. I figure it's a bit easier this way, for me, and hopefully it will read better for you. Plus its easier for me to keep track of if I'm only writing from 2 people's PoV instead of, well, 24. I can't wait until I reach the Game, but I'll try to make the few months between the reading of the card and the Game actually read like a few months, or a few weeks at least! And I'll do my best not to be boring, ever. Heheh.


	2. Discipline

I wake and immediately sit up, stretching my arms and yawning silently. Obsil is still asleep on the floor, but I see a black shape stretching across the room and it can only be Damian. I pick a few pieces of straw out of my nightshirt and slide out of bed. I light a candle and carry it into the kitchen where I light another, and another, until the room is glowing orange. I tear a small chunk, maybe the size of my fist, off of our roll of bread and begin to nibble. Its going stale, and sponges up all of the moisture in my mouth, leaving me very thirsty. I won't get anything to drink until work, though. Peacekeepers give out water for free while we cut the stone, so we don't collapse.

Damian walks in shirtless, rubbing his eye with a knuckle. "What's for breakfast?" he yawns.

"Stale bread with a side of thirst. Eat up." I reply dryly.

He smiles drowsily at my sarcasm and rips off a chunk of bread. "So, when are you gonna start training?" he asks.

"What? It's illegal to train for the games. I wouldn't dream of breaking the law!" I say, covering my mouth with one hand in fake shock. This gets me a laugh, but he gets serious quickly.

"No, really. Who knows what this new game will be like, let alone the actual Hunger Games. If you want to volunteer, you need to be prepared." he says, straight faced.

I sigh and roll my eyes, even though I'm not sure how well he can see it in the orange light. Its the same thing every year. "Damian, I'm not sure if I even want to volunteer!" They push it on me every year. Volunteer, volunteer, volunteer! This district used to be great, one of the top Hunger Games winners, blah blah blah! "Damian, listen. I think I'll let it go to luck, okay? You can volunteer if you really want to. But I won't."

He looks at me, his eyes more black than brown in the candle light, somehow very creepy. I look back, and wonder what my own icy blue eyes look like. "Fine." he says, and stands up.

"Fine what?" I ask when he starts pulling on a shirt.

He straightens it, and puts his jacket on before looking at me again. "I'm volunteering this year." and he leaves.

I glare at the door behind him. _Fine, he's volunteering this year. So what? _I think. Then another voice says, _for what? The new game, or the Hunger Games? _I poke my remaining bread, thinking about it. _The Hunger Games, probably. He wouldn't risk something like a new tournament. _But maybe, if it comes first...

Suddenly a crash comes from the bedroom. My head snaps up. The candle nearest to me has guttered out, so I grab another on the way into the room. As I turn the corner I hear Obsil moan, and then see him on the ground. In a puddle of blood.

I scream first.

Then I run in and put the candle on the ground. In the light of a single candle, the pool looks brown and black. I'm no doctor, and I'm in a panic. I slap him. His eyes flicker. I slap him again. His eyes open half way and he groans. Where's all the blood coming from! I grab his thick blanket and begin to mop up the red puddle, which I now notice seems to be mostly around his head. I still can't see, and his left eye has closed, so I wrap his whole head in the blanket and start to move him out of the room.

First I try to get him to stand, but he's really heavy and can't manage to stand on his own. I resolve to just drag him from the room by grabbing him under the armpits, the whole time talking loudly into his ear. Mostly stuff like "Wake up! Wake! Up! Obsil!"

With more light in the kitchen I can see where the blood is seeping through the blanket, from the side of his head, sort of in the back. Slowly I unwrap it and can pretty easily see the wound, a shiny cut on top of a growing lump under his black hair. Using the blanket, I slow the flow of blood. This is one thing we learned to do in Healing 101 at school. When he still doesn't wake up, I slap him again. This is something I hoped would work, but isn't so far. His eyes flicker again. I can only wish for a bit of water to splash him with, that would have to wake him up. I've seen it done before.

I put the blanket next to his head and start looking around the kitchen. What, can I throw a few pieces of bread on him? Somehow I doubt that will do very much. I could try to squeeze the blood out of the blanket, but that seems really gross. Slap him again? Well that plan hasn't been doing me much good so far. I'm on the verge of putting a bit of hot wax in his hand when he wakes up.

"God damn... What's going on?" He's looking around the kitchen, taking in the blood, the blanket, and me with my candle. Luckily that doesn't look too suspicious. "What happened!" he shouts. For some reason, this really bugs me.

"You just nearly bled to death, that's what! What the hell did you do in there?" I shout at him.

"Me? What? I don't know, I just woke up!" He reaches for the cut on his head and brings his hand back black with blood. He recoils.

"All I know is I heard a crash and found you in that." I say, and point into the bedroom where there's still a considerable puddle on the floor, and a long smear to where he's now sitting.

He looks at it. He opens his mouth to say something. Then closes it again. There's nothing to say. Who knows what happened, but here he is now, with just a scratch, and a whole lot less blood.

"Well we'd better keep it clean to avoid infection. Wear a hat or something in the mines, 'kay?"

"Mmhm." he replies, glancing uncertainly back at the puddle. He grabs a hunk of bread, and leaves.

I glare at the door behind him. Gee thanks, buddy. Leave me with this mess. I look back at the blood. Its all, well, bloody, so maybe I should clean it up before I leave, but pink light is already leaking through the windows and I know I don't have much time. Work starts at full sunrise, no matter what season. What cleans blood? Again, I wish for water. I end up using our push broom to sweep the puddle out the front door into the bleak town street. The whole district looks very similar, just a big town of stone miners and stone cutters with one baker, one butcher, one doctor, and one mayor. And the Peacekeepers, but they don't really count. All of our houses are cut from the same gray stone, though many of them having old burn marks from the Mockingjay Rebellion.

Nobody gives me or the red pool a second look, but of course by the time it's been swept across the house it looks more like brown-gray mud. The pink sky is almost yellow, so I rush back into the house, throw on a shirt and pants, Damian's old boots, and rush out the door. The thick-soled shoes smack the stone streets with every step, and the sound echos off of the walls until I sound like a one-girl army. After a few rude glares I slow to a fast walk, smiling inside as the army continues a few steps behind me.

Then some one grabs my shoulder. "A bit late today, miss Nikelle Miyo?"

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Clouds of stone dust flew around Grant as he pushed the wheelbarrow from the mine. Around him workers from 14 to 40 were hammering chunks of granite from the mountain's belly. The wheelbarrow was full of rocks from further in the mine. This close to the sun, Grant could see that the walls of the mine were pink and red and gray here and there, a Capitol favorite for decorations. In other parts of the mine the rock was pure white, and in others orange and yellow, Grant knew. Some of those rocks had been sent up and into his wheelbarrow, even though he was never in those deep parts of the mine, through winding tunnels and down huge ladders. That was the most high-risk job, and it earned those unlucky workers the same pay as the rest of the mine. Survival.

A miner crashed into Grant just before the cloud of dust engulfed them. The older boy landed on top of him and they both fell to the ground, coughing as the granite dust invaded their lungs. Eyes and throats stinging, they were suddenly pulled roughly to their feet. Grant felt his arms being pulled downward and backward over his head, stretching the shoulder almost to the point of popping. The crash had brought an army of gun wielding Peacekeepers running into the mine. The Head Peacekeeper materialized out of the white cloud as it settled. He wore a brown and white camouflage suit, masking any dust that settled on his shoulders. He stood in the middle, most cleared area of the mine entrance, right next to the pile of rocks that had been wall. One man was half buried in the rocks, his legs covered, but he did not make any noise to signify he was in pain. Not in front of David Ochoster.

He was a young looking man, in his older 20's, younger 30's. He had close cut, sandy brown hair which he kept covered with a variety of hats. Today was a black bowler hat, which seemed to elongate his face, which already looked very disappointed. Not angry, annoyed, sarcastic, just disappointed. Ochoster looked at each man and boy individually, dark green and brown eyes, forest eyes, looking for some weakness, some indication that one worker had caused the incident. Each man and boy was forced to look back, held in the same position as Grant. Each returned a straight face, except the newest recruit to the mines, a 12 year old boy named Marco. He was trying, Grant could see, trying so hard, but his eyes were wider than they should be and his arms were shaking. Ochoster saw him to, took a step toward him, and bent his 6'5" self to the eye level of the boy.

"Why, son, what has you so worried? We're all friends here. I just want to keep our working force safe and secure." he said in a velvet tone, almost comforting, but Marco couldn't hear it. His eyes widened until there was white surrounding his iris and he tried to struggle against the restraint of his Peacekeeper. The man in white behind him continued to jerk his arms further down, and Grant heard a pop. Marco squeaked, but closed his mouth and puffed out his cheeks, trapping the noise just behind his lips. Ochoster looked at Marco as if he was his father, and Marco got a bad grade at a test at school.

"This won't do, son. I'll leave you with a warning, since you're a new recruit and still learning, but should this happen again..." His stern voice gave enough implication, and everyone had heard the key word. Warning. Marco earned a warning. The first in District 2 for a month and a half. Grant's eyes flickered to Marco. His skin had gone chalk white, from pain and shock and fear. Poor boy.

"Now," Ochoster addressed the rest of the group, "Who might be to blame for this? These stones are growing in popularity in the Capitol, but what are we going to do with dust and rubble? This is a countertop, a TV stand, a statue, ruined. Money lost, citizens left empty handed, and I ask again, who is to blame?"

Each man remained a statue, still as the granite that earned them their life every day. There was a growing pool of blood under the pile of rubble, but still that man caught did not react either. Grant could see his face paling. If nobody spoke up, he would likely die. The man knew that, Grant was sure. But this was the way of many miners. Though they are working for the Capitol's favor, ratting out one of their own was always hard. The men in any area work together in squads for life, since the time they are admitted at 12, though then they are 'barrow boys. Marco was in a group of 12-year-olds, and Grant in a group of 13's.

"Does nobody know? A shame, surely. Perhaps you should each get a warning for your insolence? How does that sound, Jack?" Ochoster turned to the man behind Grant.

"Yea, I think that'd work out great. Unless my bud here saw what happened?" a husky voice said behind Grant, and applied some pressure to his arms. The muscles strained and stretched, and Grant grimaced in pain.

"It was that man, under the rocks."

All eyes turned to the boy who'd fallen on Grant, a tall, dark blonde boy.

"I saw him do it. Hit the hammer in the wrong place, and boom, down it goes." he added.

Ochoster smiled at him, a pleased smile. "Why, thank you, son. Might I get your name?"

"Mica."

"Then I thank you, Mica." Ochoster turned to the rest of the miners. "You'd best thank the boy too. A penny from each of your daily wage today will go to him, and two from the boy left of Mica." Grant sighed through his nose. Ochoster turned briskly and walked out, shiney black shoes _clack_ing on the stone floor. The Peacekeepers dropped the miners and followed suit. The silence that followed the last echo of their heavy boots was electrified. Then, as if all of the sparks had formed a lightning bolt and shocked him, the man under the rubble let out a long, bloodcurdling scream. Grant hated it, watching a grown man contort his face in such a way, all red and stretched, tears now carving out a thin stream down his cheeks.

Grant tried to turn away, but the blonde boy, Mica, caught his shoulder. "Watch. He's one of ours, we shouldn't leave him alone in his suffering. Help me move the rocks."

The other miners had slowly found other things to do, leaving the man to bleed to death. A lost cause is no reason to exert effort, even if they'd known the man by name for 10 years. A penny had already been lost to the blonde boy, why lose another five if he'll die anyway? Grant saw that a few of the miners faces were folded in anger, creases forming between their brows, and their knuckles holding the hammers and pickaxes so tight their knuckles turned bone white. _At least they do care..._

Mica was now with the man on the ground, standing in the red puddle, moving the pile gently, one stone at a time. He didn't seem to notice the sticky pool or the salty smell, he just moved hunk after hunk of granite to the side. Grant joined him wearily, wishing he had another pair of boots. This pair would be stained with the memory forever, now. He was close enough to the man to see his face clearly, and recognize it from around town. His head was balding, but still had hair on top. It was dark brown with gray streaks, and he had permanent wrinkles on his forehead. He was sputtering out bless yous and thank yous, reaching out weakly to hold Grant's hand. When Grant continued to move stones, the man settled for his upper arm.

_These stones are so heavy. I can push a whole wheelbarrow full of them, but barely lift one? _He took a rock as big as his head and swung it around to the pile Mica had started. _And this man's legs are caught under all of them..._

Slowly and surely the rubble was moved, dust swept away, and legs revealed. Grant had seen the revealing little by little, but entirely cleared the view was very grotesque. Grant stood, and the mans hand dropped limply from Grant's shoulder. Mica had been silent the entire time they were moving the rocks. He pushed Grant aside and picked the man's hand up again and whispered something in his ear. It seemed to make the man smile, and Grant saw his fading eyes flicker. A few miners had stopped their mining to watch their comrade depart. One stepped forward and laid his pickax on the ground by the dying man, kissed his hand, and touched the head of the ax. He stood, stepped back, and another took his place. Grant moved out of the way as the ceremony continued silently. The man on the ground didn't move, but seemed to be holding on to the final moments. Mica was last. With no ax or hammer, he kissed his hand and touched the man's forehead.

"Goodbye, Father." he whispered, and stepped back.

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End file.
